Silent city grinds to a halt to mourn its favourite son

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The Pope's home town has wrapped itself in a death shroud, writes
Mat Schulz in Cracow.

After the Pope's death, rumours surfaced he might be buried
beneath Cracow's Wawel Cathedral with Poland's kings and queens.
When it was announced the funeral would take place in Rome, there
were requests for the Pope's heart to be buried in Cracow.

This has not happened. But while the world's cameras were
directed elsewhere this week, the city - and Poland - has been in
the grip of an astonishing period of mourning.

TV and radio stations stopped broadcasting advertisements in the
wake of the Pope's death. Even regular programs were cancelled,
with networks only airing coverage related to the Pope, news and
shows with a religious or national theme.

Newspapers printed their front pages in black. Inside, there's
little news that is not about the Pope, and there was plenty of
information on how to organise a trip to the Vatican for the
funeral.

The playing of loud music on the street ceased, and on the radio
only soft, slow ballads are acceptable. A German fun fair rolled
into Cracow before Easter, but its rides are still.

As a mark of respect, many bars and restaurants closed, as have
all cinemas closed. Buildings and trams were decorated with Polish
and Vatican flags and citizens wear badges showing the city's
emblem, marked by a black band.

Whenever the Pope visited Cracow on pilgrimages, there was a
prohibition on selling alcohol. Shops would cover bottles with a
cloth. If the present mourning has also felt enforced, it is by
public consensus, rather than law.

Places in the city that were part of Karol Wojtyla's Cracow life
have become a focus for grief: the Bishop's Palace in the Old Town
where the Pope would stay during his pilgrimages; a house where he
lived during the war; the large common called Blonia, where Poles
would gather in the millions to attend Mass with him.

Throughout the week, Poles have put candles at these places,
wept, reflected and prayed. On Tuesday night, a Mass took place in
a football stadium. Under the media spotlight, violent hooligans
from two rival clubs embraced - an indication of how deeply Poles
have been affected.

"People didn't believe the Pope would ever die," said Agnieszka,
a sociology student at Jagiellonian University, outside the
Bishop's Palace. "They thought that he could only get sick. Now
they are in a state of shock."

On Thursday evening, a White March took place, named after a
procession that occurred 24 years ago after the Pope was shot.
Then, students walked quietly from the Main Square to Blonia
common, and prayed that the Pope would recover. On Thursday, when
300,000 marchers walked the same route, the streets were so full
the procession spilt out to other areas.

At Blonia almost a million people gathered for Mass. On the
stage was an empty papal chair, and behind that an enormous
painting of Christ's face. The Mass was projected onto four large
screens. Some spent the night there, waiting for the telecast of
the Pope's funeral that was shown on the same screens yesterday
morning.

Tourists in Cracow move through all this in bewilderment. Yet
despite the closed bars and restaurants, the spectacle of this city
in mourning is so overwhelming they don't mind the inconvenience.
"It's a historical moment," said Jerry, a retiree from Wisconsin.
"It's very emotional."

Although Poles did not always listen to the Pope's words against
an unbridled free market, rampant consumerism and contraception, he
has still had a massive effect on politics.

"The Pope linked conservative religious minds with liberal
intellectuals," said Agnieszka. "No group was officially against
him. Now nothing will link those groups and there will be a
breakdown in communication."

But for the moment nobody is talking about this. Rather, Poles
remain unified in their love for John Paul II.